


garden of roses

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1910s, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Jaime is a nice guy okay, Sexual Content, major plot holes sooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Sansa is the wife of Jaime Lannister, who runs a lumber company in the woods of Quebec. When she meets Jon Snow, one of her husband's employees, her world turns upside down.





	garden of roses

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a photo prompt for jonsa-creatives on tumblr, so ayyy here ya go.

The Lannister mansion sits in a large clearing in the woods. A dirt road comes from the south, where Jon had come from his little house in town, and continues north, into the woods that the Lannister Lumber Company is currently operating in. He knocks twice with the golden lion door knocker, fixing his hair while he waits for it to open.

Jon is greeted by a teenage boy with dark hair and a clean pressed suit. It makes him rather self conscious of the old coat and mud-splattered boots he’s chosen to wear. The house is grand and ornate, with a glass chandelier in the foyer and bright French doors leading into the parlor.

“May I take your coat for you, sir?”

“I’m not going to stay very long. I was called on a matter of business,” he explains.

“Podrick, who’s at the door?” There are quick footsteps, and then a woman with bright red hair comes down the grand staircase.

Jon feels his breath leave his lungs. She’s quite possibly the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. She wears a light blue dress with a white shawl draped over her shoulders, and a copy of Shakespeare’s _King Lear_ is clutched in her left hand. Her auburn locks are twisted back into an elegant braid, cascading down her shoulders.

“My… my name is Jon Snow, ma’am,” he manages to choke out. “Mr. Lannister wanted to discuss the latest progress of the company.”

“Oh, Jaime told me you’d be coming by. He’s on his way back from town at the moment, but he should be home soon. Here, come sit down. Podrick, could you have Ros bring us some tea?”

Podrick nods and hurries off. The woman leads him into the parlor. He takes a seat in a blue chair next to a round table. The decorations are all expensive, and there isn’t a speck of dust to be seen.

“Goodness, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Jaime’s wife. My name is Sansa.”

“Sansa,” he says, letting the syllables roll off his tongue. “That’s pretty.”

She smiles, and he can’t help but notice how young she is. The lines around her mouth are thin and not yet sunken into her skin. There’s a certain elegance to the way she moves, which shows that the etiquette lessons of a young woman are still fresh in her mind. Jon is sure she’s his age, if not younger.

“What is it?” she asks. “You’re staring.”

“Forgive me, ma’am. Mr. Lannister never mentioned he was married.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” she says. A woman wearing a white dress with an apron enters the parlor and sets down a tray of tea. Sansa murmurs thank you, Ros, and pours two cups. Jon wonders why she seems unperturbed by the fact that her husband has neglected to mention her existence.

“Your accent is familiar. Are you from Winterfell?”

“You’re quite observant. I grew up there, yes, though I’ve been living here in Canada for five years.”

“I lived there as well. It was always a lovely city,” says Jon. “I’d like to go back someday.”

“As would I,” Sansa agrees. “It’s beautiful here, with all the woods. Just to hear the birds singing every morning is a gift. Sometimes I wish I could run off and live in the wild, just to be close to nature, but that was always more of my sister’s ambition. All I can ask for is the chance to look out of my window and see the forest every morning. I suppose it’s ironic that my husband owns a lumber company.”

Jon is captivated by the sparkle in her eyes. They’re like two small oceans glinting with rays of the morning sun. He could drown there and be happy, he supposes.

“Have I bored you terribly?” Sansa asks. He realizes that he’s fallen into a dazed stupor.

“No!” he says quickly. “Not at all. It’s just- you… your eyes are beautiful.”

She takes a sip of tea to hide her blush. “Thank you, Mr. Snow.”

He’s about to tell her to call him Jon, just Jon, but the sound of the door interrupts them. There are heavy footsteps in the foyer, and then Mr. Lannister enters the parlor. Sansa immediately goes over to help him with his coat.

“Welcome home, Jaime. Are you hungry? I can tell Ros to prepare supper, if you like.”

“No, that’s alright. Your brother and sister sent a few letters. And I brought you some fabric and thread from the store you like,” says Mr. Lannister, presenting three letters and a wrapped parcel to his wife. She smiles and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you, dear. I was just keeping Mr. Snow entertained while he waited for you,” she says. Jon stands and makes sure to shake Mr. Lannister’s left hand (the right having been lost to a logging accident two years prior).

“I trust you have a full report on the northern operation?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. I think you’ll be pleased with our results,” says Jon.

“Good man. I’d expect nothing less. Sansa, would you excuse us? We’ve matters of business to discuss.”

“Of course. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Snow,” says Sansa. She gives him one last brilliant smile, carrying the tray as she leaves the room. His eyes follow her, taking in every little detail of her simple dress, wavy hair, and porcelain skin.

A wedding ring is markedly absent.

* * *

 

“Good evening, ma’am. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Sansa lets Jon inside. “You’re not. Did my husband ask for you?”

“Yes, he had some papers for me to look over.” He keeps his coat on, but makes sure to clean his boots on the doormat.

“Jaime’s in town again, but I think he left his things in his study. You can come look for them, if you like.”

He tries to hide an eager smile. After his last visit, he had gone back to the local pub and told tales about a red-haired beauty to his friends. Edd and Grenn had rolled their eyes and bet him a dollar that she didn’t even exist.

She leads him upstairs and into a small study. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and a large mahogany desk stands at the far end. Mr. Lannister has several framed pictures set along the surface. Jon moves around the desk to look at them. There’s an old portrait of a fair-haired woman which has turned yellow with time, most likely his mother. There are a few pictures of a young girl and boy, and even one of a large house by the sea.

But there’s one that stands out the most. It’s a photo of Jaime and Sansa on their wedding day, smiling gently as they pose in front of a grey background. Jaime’s hair is a bit longer, and Sansa’s hair is curlier. She holds a bouquet of roses, and has a white lace veil pinned back from her face.

“I made it myself,” says Sansa, nodding at the photograph. “The dress. We were married a week after we met and there wasn’t enough time to order a new one. I used the fabric from my sister’s bedsheets.”

She fiddles with her fingers, and he notices something familiar.

“You aren't wearing your wedding ring,” he says. “Why?”

“That’s quite a question,” she says, inhaling sharply.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“I don’t mind, it’s just… it’s a long story, and I don’t want you to have the wrong impression of me.”

Without realizing what he’s doing, Jon reaches for her hand and squeezes her fingers. Sansa responds with her own tight grip as she tries to search for words. Her skin is cool and smooth like silk.

“I was eighteen when my parents and my older brother died in an accident. They were in considerable debt, since they had just started a printing company and hadn’t had the time to pay it off. I have three younger siblings who needed financial support as well. I met Jaime quite by chance. He was kind enough, and we needed each other’s help. Marriage seemed like the logical choice,” she explains.

“What did he need your help with?”

“Avoiding questions.”

Jon had heard whispers, as had almost every employee of the Lannister Lumber Company. Although she rarely made an appearance in public, Cersei Lannister had acquired quite a reputation. He had never paid much mind to rumors, but perhaps there was more truth in them than he expected.

“So he sends your family money, and you act the part of the perfect wife.”

“I’d like to think that I _am_ a perfect wife, but yes, that is the general agreement,” she says with a hint of playfulness. “We tend to ignore each other’s flaws.”

“Ma’am, why-”

_“Sansa. Call me Sansa, please. Sansa Stark.”_

_Sansa. Sansa. San-sa Stark._ He could lose himself in those three syllables.

“Sansa… why are you telling me this? You didn’t have to, just because I asked,” he says. “I don’t know you well, and you don’t know me.”

She purses her lips, and he suddenly wishes very much that he could kiss her. Not for desire or lust, but for the curiosity of the heart. Would she taste like a goddess or a queen?

“You remind me of home,” she says.

 _Five words_. Five words, and he knows that he’s completely doomed.

The door to the study opens, and Jaime Lannister comes inside. Sansa’s hands slips away from Jon’s, and she quickly fetches a bundle of papers and presses them into his arms.

“Mr. Snow was just leaving.”

“Ah, I see,” says Jaime, nodding respectfully.

Jon looks back at her one last time. She nods, almost imperceptibly, as if to say it’s alright. He leaves the room quickly, shutting the door but lingering for a moment.

 _“Did you have a good day?”_ Jaime asks.

 _“Of course, darling,”_ is Sansa’s cheerful reply, but Jon can tell that she’s not smiling.

* * *

 

“Tell me about Jon Snow,” says Sansa as she sits in front of her white and gold vanity. Jaime is already in bed, his hair still wet from his bath.

“He’s the supervisor of the logging operation in the northern part of the forest. Came all the way from England for the job. He’s a good man, and an excellent worker. His duty is to make sure his men fill the daily quota, but he insists on doing the job himself. I’ve offered to promote him to a better paying job, but he seems to like being out in the woods,” he says, flipping a page in his book.

Sansa nods and starts to brush out her hair, letting the soft waves glow in the light of the lamps. Her nightgown is thin, and she shivers as a draft of cold air comes through the window. Colder weather would be on the way soon.

In the mirror of her vanity, she can see Jaime staring at her. There’s something hidden in his eyes. _Sadness? Resignation?_ She bites her tongue and looks away.

“Sansa, I’d like us to be honest with each other,” he says. “You’re my wife, not my prisoner. I want you to be content.”

“I’ve nothing to lie about.”

“I saw the way he looked at you.”

Sansa sets her brush down carefully. “So did I.”

The memory of Jon’s fingers intertwined with hers haunts her. _Could her mind be playing tricks?_ _No,_ she decides. Jaime had never touched her like that. Every time Jon’s skin brushed against hers, she’d wanted more. It was an aching desire, filling her thoughts and consuming her heart.

“I’m not angry with you,” Jaime adds. Of course he’s not. Four years of marriage, and he’s never once raised his voice at her. Sansa wonders if that might change.

“I think I’ll sleep in my own room tonight,” she says, turning off the lamp as she leaves.

* * *

 

He comes to the mansion five days later. Sansa is sure it’s a mistake.

“Jaime’s not home. He’s been in town all day. I thought he’d be back by now, but perhaps he’s busy. ”

“I saw him outside of the company office. He sent me to check on you- here. He wrote a note.”

_Sansa- Tyrion needs help settling a few matters, I’ll be home late. Don’t be lonely. -Jaime_

She smiles, reminding herself to thank him later.

“Would you stay a while? I could show you the gardens,” says Sansa, tucking the paper into her pocket.

“I’d like that very much,” he replies. She fetches her hat and coat from the coat rack, and leads him outside and around the house.

The garden is a quiet, serene place. A small fountain stands in the center. There are several rows of flowers, with stone paths weaving in between. Statues of goddesses stand in the corners, with their stony eyes casting a sense of safety over the entire yard.

“The roses come from my family’s garden in Winterfell. I planted them myself when I first came here. They remind me of home,” she tells him, pointing to a bush of soft red roses.

“My mother, Lyanna, she loved flowers,” says Jon. “She always kept bunches of them in blue glass jars on our kitchen table. When I was five, I made a crown out of them and called myself the queen of love and beauty. Mother thought it was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen.”

Sansa’s laugh is like little bells. “I’m sure I’d agree with her.”

They stroll through the greenery. She plucks a rose for him and tucks it into the pocket in his coat.

“You should plant berries. They tend to grow well around here,” he comments, trying to distract himself from her careful touch.

“Oh, and you’re a botanist now?” Sansa giggles.

“I’ve spent years in these woods, and I know which plants fare better than others,” he says.

Sighing, she nods. “I’ve been here for five years. You’d think I’d know these woods like the back of my hand, but in truth, I hardly ever leave the house.”

“Five years? How old are you?” he asks out of curiosity.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?” She grins. “I’m twenty-three.”

“I’m twenty-five,” he offers, as if it makes them even.

“I would’ve thought you were thirty, with that beard.” Sansa kneels down by a cluster of forget-me-nots to pick out a stray weed. Jon runs his hand across the stubble on his chin.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, trying not to sound crestfallen.

“No, I do. It’s very fitting for a lumberjack.”

He offers his hand to help her up, which she gracefully accepts. Her hair blows back in the calm breeze, reminding him of the illustrations of fairies that adorned the pages of the books his mother read to him when he was young.

“If I asked to see you again, would you come?” Her voice is full of careful hope.

“If I said yes, would you think me presumptuous?”

A gentle smile graces her face. “Come for dinner tomorrow at seven. I want to hear more about Jon Snow, the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

* * *

 

Much to Jon’s relief, Jaime invites his brother Tyrion, who has a knack for keeping the mood light.

Tyrion and Jaime sit on one side of the table, and Jon and Sansa sit on the other. Ros serves them roasted turkey with brussel sprouts and cranberry jam. The conversation is better than Jon had hoped for. Tyrion turns out to be a thoroughly entertaining man, making all of them laugh with a joke about a jackass and a honeycomb.

For dessert, they have lemon cakes. Jon notices that the Lannister brothers leave theirs for Sansa, which she eagerly consumes.

“Have mine,” he says, passing her the white china dish. She grins as if she’s a child in a candy shop, and takes a bite, holding her hand at her chin to catch the crumbs.

“I’ll go see if Ros has any strawberries and cream,” says Jaime, excusing himself. Tyrion finishes his third glass of wine.

“And I need to find more of this. Will you survive with Mr. Snow for a moment, sister?” he says. Sansa laughs.

“I’m sure I can. Find me some more lemon cakes.”

The room goes silent as Jon and Sansa sit alone. The lights from the candelabra flicker across their faces. Jon’s finger brushes against the exposed skin on her elbow. She inhales shakily, and her eyelids flutter as she turns to meet his gaze.

“You’ve thoroughly bewitched me, Sansa Stark,” he murmurs, tracing circles against her forearm.

“And you-”

She’s cut off by the door to the dining room swinging open, and the Lannister brothers walking in with a tray of cakes and a fresh bottle of wine. Jon’s fingers slip away, and he sees her jaw clench.

“Are you well, sister dearest? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Tyrion comments, pouring a glass of wine for Sansa. She finishes it in one long sip.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Jon, why don’t you tell Tyrion and Jaime about your mother?”

He bites his lip, but starts telling them stories of his adventures as the queen of love and beauty. Underneath the table, he reaches for her fingers, and they intertwine as if they were two pieces in a puzzle that was meant to be completed.

* * *

 

Sansa is not a devout person. She accompanies Jaime to the church services in town every Sunday, sings the hymns, says amen, and keeps her head down, but she never prays before bed or reads from the Bible.

It’s a chilly Sunday in November. The priest is finishing a verse. Sansa closes her eyes and thanks God for her husband.

He always finds an excuse to have Jon at the house. Sometimes he’s needed to look over a financial report, sometimes he’s needed for his advice, and sometimes it could be something as minor as an inquiry about the welfare of the workers. His visits become a weekly habit, and then daily. For every minute he spends with Jaime, Jon spends half an hour with Sansa.

“Why do you call on him so often?” she asks as they lay in bed, facing different directions under the cold sheets.

“Because he makes you happy,” is Jaime’s response. “Doesn’t he?”

 _Yes, he does._ Jon makes her feel alive, like a bird set free after years in a gilded cage. He listens to every word she says, as if her words were somehow sacred. They walk through the gardens half a hundred times, and when they tire of that, they venture into the woods. Sansa comes home with a mud-stained dress and twigs in her hair, but it’s all worth it. For once in her life, she can’t seem to stop smiling.

“For you,” says Jon, arriving exactly at two o’clock (as per usual), holding out a soft pink rose.

“It’s lovely, where did you find it?”

“There’s a bush growing along the road. Here, let me.” He tucks the rose behind her ear, brushing aside a few strands of her hair. His fingers brush her cheek just slightly.

_God, she wants him to kiss her._

But he lets his hand drop back to his side, offering a small smile. Sansa lets out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“Podrick!” she calls.

“Yes, ma’am?” He pokes his head into the foyer.

“Tell Jaime I’m going for a walk with Jon. We’ll be back soon.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

She follows him outside, holding her wool shawl around her shoulders. They follow the road to the right. There’s half a mile of woodland between the house and King’s Landing, the little town based around the lumber industry. Sansa ignores the early November chill and turns her head upwards.

“Are those rain clouds?” she asks, peering curiously at the sky.

“It probably won’t reach us. Storms tend to head south.”

They continue until Jon points out a rose bush growing a few yards off the road. He helps Sansa step over several fallen branches and stones, and she notices that his thumb runs against her knuckles with feather-soft gentleness.

“It’s so beautiful. They usually don’t last this late. I wish I had one like it in my garden,” she says when they come up next to the bush.

“Well,” says Jon, “it’s not that big. I could reach in and cut it at the base, and you could try to replant it.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, you’ll catch yourself on the thorns. Besides, it’s hard to plant anything when it’s this cold out.”

“Fine,” he says, pulling out a pocketknife. “I’ll cut you a few, though.”

Jon sets to work, picking the fullest roses and stripping away the thorns. Sansa walks around the clearing until a few drops of water land on her neck. The heavy pitter-patter of rain on leaves begins to grow louder, and soon enough, they’re in a full-fledged downpour.

“You told me it wouldn’t rain!” she shrieks, trying to take shelter under a branch. Jon’s innocent shrug is infuriating, and she bends over and scoops up a handful of mud, throwing it straight at his chest. It splatters against his clothes, and he laughs at her childlike anger.

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” he says, locating the nearest puddle and balling up a clump of wet dirt.

“Jon, don’t you dare-”

The mud hits her side, and she shrieks. Surely, her dress will stain, but instead of worrying about it, she digs her hands in the earth and returns the attack. They end up slipping around, soaked in rain and dirt, bent over in peals of laughter as they carelessly throw mud at each other. It’s hard to catch her breath, but Sansa holds up her hands in surrender.

“Jon…”

He cups her face in his calloused hands and kisses her. She melts into him straight away, tangling her fingers in his hair. He’s gentle and firm at the same time, running his tongue across her bottom lip. It’s almost too much, and Sansa pries him away.

“I had to do that. I love you, Sansa Stark,” he says, measuring her reaction. She takes a deep breath and looks up, meeting his dark eyes with her own icy blue ones.

“I love you, too,” she says, “but please, do that again.”

And god, he does.

He pins her against a large evergreen and fumbles with her undergarments. The corset is too complicated, but her knickers are ripped aside easily enough. She undoes his belt while he presses sloppy kisses against the corner of her mouth.

 _“Slow,”_ she hisses. He tries to ease his cock inside her, but her back slips against the tree and he enters her in one quick movement.

“Jon!” Her nails scrape down his neck, cutting into the skin.

“Sorry,” he mutters, adjusting her legs around his waist. “You can find some more mud, if you like.”

Her breathy laugh turns into desperate moans as he settles into a quick rhythm, matching the beating of their hearts.

“Faster,” she begs, and he increases his pace, winding his hand between her legs to work at her clit. Sansa lets out a low whine and pulls on his hair.

 _“Fuck,_ Sansa, you feel so fucking amazing.”

“Jon, please, Jon-”

He comes inside her with a heavy grunt, and her own peak follows not long after. Jon’s legs feel like jelly, and he gently lowers them so they can sit on the mossy ground. Sansa lets her head rest against his shoulder.

“That’s not at all how I imagined it happening,” says Sansa.

“Better or worse?”

“Better.” She wipes her forehead. “Muddier.”

He kisses the side of her head, sifting his hands through her hair. The rain had continues to pour down on them, soaking through their ruined clothes. Sansa has never tasted anything sweeter.

* * *

 

“Sansa, I’m here!”

“Hello,” she mutters, sipping her cup of tea. “Could you close the curtains?”

Jon enters the parlor and fixes the curtains, then takes a seat in the green armchair across from her. His hair is tousled from the wind.

“Are you alright? I can have Podrick call the doctor, if you like.”

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

Jon lets out a quick breath, opening his mouth and closing it again.

“That’s a good thing. It is, isn’t it?” he asks, full of hope, his face already breaking into a smile that makes her heart melt.

“Yes, you’re right,” she says. Jon goes over to kneel in front of her, pressing a kiss to her belly. There’s no change yet, but there’s a promise of something good, and that’s worth more than gold.

“I’m so happy, Sansa, you have no idea. I love you so much. And if I could marry you, I swear I would.”

“Don’t say that,” she says, pulling him up to kiss his blistered lips. “I have you, and that’s enough.”

(When she tells Jaime, he smiles and congratulates her, and offers to help in any way that he can. Sansa screams at him, because it would be so much easier if he could hate her for it.)

* * *

 

They name her Anna.

 _Anna, as in Joanna,_ Sansa and Jaime say at the party after the christening. The mention of Joanna Lannister makes Cersei bristle and unleash the famously tart tongue that Jaime and Tyrion have tried so hard to pull back.

“She certainly doesn’t look like a Lannister,” she comments snidely. Though it’s the first time Sansa has seen her sister-in-law in a long time, age certainly hasn’t sweetened their relationship.

“Look, Uncle Jaime, she has your eyes!” Tommen is barely nine, but he holds Anna carefully as he and Myrcella fawn over the infant girl.

“She’s so pretty. I always wanted to have dark hair,” sighs Myrcella.

“Brother, may I speak to you?” Cersei asks. Jaime looks over at Sansa, offering a silent apology.

“Of course,” he says.

They’re gone for five minutes, and then Cersei storms through the room. Tommen and Myrcella sigh and say their farewells, passing Anna over to Tyrion.

Jaime and Sansa have slept in separate rooms for months, but something compels her to tiptoe to his bedroom in the middle of the night. His door is locked and bolted. He’s never been secretive or shut off before, and for a long time, she stands there and wonders if he cares more than he lets on.

 _Anna, as in Lyanna,_ Sansa says, watching Jon hold their daughter for the first time. It’s a week after the birth, and the visitors and well-wishers have finally gone. She had sent Podrick to fetch him from his house in town

“I love her too much,” he says. “She’s perfect, Sansa.”

“I think she looks like you,” she muses, fixing the small curls on Anna’s forehead.

Jon looks at the baby girl as if she’s the stars, the sun, and the moon wrapped into one tiny being.

“I’m so happy,” he says. Anna squeezes her little fist around his finger. They’re an odd family, but if they’re happy, then perhaps they’ll be just fine.

* * *

 

Their happiness never lasts long.

“Jon, come in! Annie and I were just about to go on a walk through the gardens. The blueberries are doing well. If we have enough, Ros said that she’d be able to bake a pie. Would you stay for supper?"

She sees his face, and her smile dies. “What is it?”

“I thought you knew,” he says, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving? Where? For what?”

“I’m being sent to Europe to look into extending the company. The letter said I’d be gone for a while.”

Her blood freezes in her veins. _No. She won’t let anyone take Jon away from her._

“Wait here,” she says, passing Anna into his arms. Sansa rushes upstairs and throws open the door to Jaime’s study.

“Why are you doing this?” she demands, leaning over his desk.

“What?”

“Why would you send off Jon? You _know_ how much I love him, you know that I need him! I thought you were supposed to make me _happy!”_ It’s childish and petty, but she can’t allow Jon to be ripped away from her so easily.

“And you know that I would never hurt you!” he snaps. “I promised you that, Sansa. Someone in the company must have gone behind my back-”

They both know who it is, but neither of them want to say it. Her name has become poison, and Sansa refuses to swallow it.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. If it’s already gone this far, there’s nothing I can do.”

“How long?” she asks.

“There’s no way of knowing. Years, likely.”

“Years?” she whispers, feeling her heart sink into the bottom of her stomach. “I don’t have years. Annie doesn’t have years. She can’t grow up without him.”

“Sansa-”

“No. Just… _stop.”_

She leaves him there, calling her name. Jon is still standing in the foyer, holding Anna at his hip and smiling as she babbles at him.

“I love you,” she says, reaching up to wrap her fingers in his hair. “I love you so much.”

“I don’t want to leave you. But if you can wait, then I promise, I’ll come back to you.”

The kiss isn’t satisfying. It’s desperate and hungry, and burns her to the core. He comes back the next morning with a large white dog on his heels and dark circles under his eyes.

“I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“I’m leaving Ghost with you,” he says. “He’s a brave old boy. He’ll protect you and Annie. You don’t have to fuss over him much, he can usually hunt for his own food, but he might need a bit of attention sometimes.” Anna giggles and reaches her chubby fist towards Ghost.

“I suppose this is goodbye for now,” says Sansa.

“Aye. For now.”

“You’ll write me?”

“I’d be a fool not to.”

She hugs him goodbye and promises a kiss for when he returns. Sansa has endured her fair share of suffering, but nothing hurts more than watching him walk down the lonely dirt road as the storm clouds gather overhead.

* * *

 

His letters are rushed but sweet.

 _Dearest,_ he calls her, or _my love,_ or _darling._ He details his travels, tells her where he is and where he’s going. Sometimes he’ll enclose a leaf or a flower petal and write a quick poem.

Sansa’s letters are long and loving. She tells him all about Anna, Ghost, and her garden, describing each day in depth all while falling more and more in love with him, treasuring each stroke of black ink in his neat script.

And suddenly, the letters stop. There’s no way to know why. Sansa writes to the last address he had been at, but she only receives a reply that informs her that Jon hasn’t stayed there for two weeks. For months, she waits and waits.

“Don’t give up on him,” Jaime advises, but her head is a void of anger, and she finds herself hating Jon Snow with each passing day.

* * *

 

Sansa comes to realize that she doesn’t hate Jon. She’s just _lonely._

She’s _unbearably_ lonely, and perhaps that’s why she goes to her husband in the middle of the night. Perhaps that’s why she kisses him so desperately. Perhaps that’s why she squeezes her eyelids shut when he makes love to her.

And when she comes, she cries _Jon_ as clear as day. Her eyes snap open as she realizes her mistake. Jaime’s seed is still wet on her thighs, and his teeth are silently forming the n in her name.

_Her name. No one else’s._

“I’m sorry!” she gasps between sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jaime. I’m sorry.”

“Shh, shh,” he says. “I know.” He holds her tight as she shakes, careful to keep his cold prosthetic hand away from her skin.

“I never deserved you.” Her voice is ragged and she closes her eyes again, unable to look at his blonde hair when she wishes it was black.

“And I never deserved you either,” he whispers. “Do you think we could’ve been happy? In some other life?”

“There’s no point in pretending,” says Sansa, although it’s pretending that keeps hope in her heart.

* * *

 

_Jon-_

_If I asked you to forgive me, would you?_

_Yours always, Sansa_

(She doesn't know where she is, so she sends the letter into nowhere.)

* * *

 

There are a few tiny specks of green in Cordelia’s eyes. That’s the only piece of her father that she possesses.

“I’ll be a better man for her, I promise,” says Jaime, stroking the soft tufts of red hair on his daughter’s head as she sleeps.

Sansa isn’t sure if she wants that.

* * *

 

“Where are you going?”

The first hints of light have barely begun to rise over the evergreens. Not even the birds have begun their morning songs. Jaime finishes buttoning his shirt and begins searching for a coat. His clothes are different from the suits he typically wears. The ones he’s chosen are meant to be practical instead of stylish.

“I’m working in the woods today. We’re clearing a new acre and I thought the men could use a bit of help getting started.”

Sansa rubs her eyes and sits up in bed. “Why? Are you sure you can manage, with your hand?”

He smiles and reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be home for supper.”

It’s hard to see in the dark room, but Sansa nods and settles back against the pillows. Jaime’s soft footsteps trail away from her, and she sighs as she begins to drift off to sleep again.

“Jaime?”

He pauses in the doorway. “Yes?”

“You’ve got a button loose on your coat. Remind me to mend it when you get home,” she mutters.

* * *

 

For a while, it almost seems as if Sansa’s life is perfect.

She starts waking earlier to see Jaime off to work. Every morning, he kisses her forehead before he leaves. She tends to the garden with Podrick, and plants a new rose bush under the bird bath. Ros gets engaged to a lawyer from town. Sansa helps plan the wedding.

Jaime comes home after sunset every day, covered in mud. She tends to his blisters and scrapes, mends his torn clothes, and gives him medicine for his aching back.

“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” he says, and she laughs.

“You are. You’ve just been lazy for a few years, that’s all.”

He kisses her goodnight. It helps distract her from Jon, and perhaps that’s not so terrible.

It’s a warm June day when she’s walking around the house, singing to Cordelia while Anna runs around with Ghost. When the front door opens, it’s not Jaime who walks in, but three men in fine clothing. They remove their top hats when they see her.

“Ma’am.”

“What happened?” she says, her voice as sharp as a knife.

“There was an unfortunate accident with a downed tree. Several men were injured, including your husband. His wounds were too severe, ma’am. He could not be saved. Our greatest condolences are, of course, with you.”

They say something else, but Sansa can’t hear it. The world is crashing down around her shoulders and _god,_ she’s never felt so small. Everyone she cares about has left her, and it’s not _fair._

“Mama? What is it?” Anna tugs on the hem of her dress. “Where’s Papa?”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say, so she gathers both of her daughters in a tight embrace. All she can think is that Cordelia’s eyes have never looked so akin to Jaime’s.

* * *

 

His headstone reads _Jaime Lannister, 1 April 1866 - 18 June 1913, beloved brother, father and husband._

It’s a poor way to sum him up.

“Jon wrote me back, at last,” says Sansa, unfolding a small piece of paper. “He told me that he spent months travelling and couldn’t find a way to send letters. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. You told me not to give up on him, so I suppose you were right about that.”

Her dark veil blows in the wind. The funeral guests had whispered about it, wondering why on earth a widow would wear a lace veil instead of plain sheer fabric. Sansa had worn black gloves to hide the dye stains on her hands. The last time she had worn the veil, it had been white, for a wedding instead of a funeral.

Sansa presses her lips to the cold marble.

“We were both so bad at pretending,” she says.

* * *

 

“My sister will want the estate,” says Tyrion, sipping his glass of wine. “Cersei always gets what she wants, you know.”

“Does she?” Sansa mutters absentmindedly.

“She’ll have the house, if not the fortune. You should take whatever my brother left you and go to your family.”

“Jon is coming back, and I’m leaving this damned place forever.”

Cordelia begins to fuss in her cradle, and Sansa reaches over to rock it gently. The spring breeze is gentle and sweet. From her chair on the porch, she can look over the blooming rose bushes that Anna loves playing in.

“He loved you,” says Tyrion. “Jaime. He might not have been plain about it, but he did. Before he married you, he was a broken man. You saved him, in a way, and he was always grateful for it, just as I am.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Trust me, I can do that myself.”

“No, but you should know that he would’ve wanted you to be happy.”

Anna comes running towards them with Ghost on her heels. He has a messily constructed chain of flowers crowning his head.

“Mama, look! Ghost and I are playing fairies and princesses. He’s the fairy queen, and I’m a lost princess. Do you want to be my knight, Uncle Tyrion?”

Tyrion finishes his wine. “Perhaps you could make me one of those crowns. I always wanted to be a fairy queen.”

“Silly Uncle Tyrion!” Anna giggles. Ghost follows dutifully, stopping to poke his nose curiously in Cordelia’s crib.

It’s been almost three years since Jon left, and everything has changed. She wonders if he would still love her if he knew how much she had hated him for disappearing.

* * *

“Mama!” Anna calls from the foyer. “Someone at the door!”

“You can answer it, darling, just remember your manners,” says Sansa, finishing the ribbons in Cordelia’s red curls. She stays just out of view at the top of the staircase, watching as Anna stands on her tiptoes to open the door.

“Hello, sir. How can I help you?”

It’s as if Sansa forgets how to breathe. Jon enters the house, holding a bouquet of wildflowers, with roses interspersed. His clothes are finely tailored, far from the muddy work trousers that he had worn on their first meeting. He looks older, but then again, so does she.

“You must be Annie,” he says, kneeling down to her height. “I haven’t seen you in a while, but your mama has told me so much about you. Would you like a flower?”

Anna picks out a rose, and Jon tucks it behind her ear. Sansa can’t wait any longer. She hurries down the stairs and runs into his embrace.

“Sansa,” he says, letting her name roll off his tongue. She strokes her thumb across his beard, trying to savor each delicate touch.

“You’re back,” she whispers. “Oh, _Jon,_ you’re finally back.”

“I promised you, didn’t I?” They laugh despite their joyful tears.

“I built a new life for us. We’re going to be a family,” he says. “You, me, Annie, and Cordelia. We're going to be happy, I promise."

They take the train out of King’s Landing and out of Quebec, and they take a boat out of Canada. Their cabin is small, with only one bed, but Sansa curls up next to Jon and the girls wiggle their way into the sheets, and they keep each other warm during long nights at sea.

When they arrive in England, they take another train north. Anna peers out of the window the whole time, enthralled by the rise and fall of the passing moors. Cordelia falls asleep in Jon’s lap, and he hums in time with the rattle of the train car.

At the train station, Jon hires a car to take them into Winterfell. The city hasn’t changed much, and Sansa smiles as they rumble down the old streets. Her childhood home is just like she remembers it. Ghost lumbers out of the car and begins investigating his new home. Jon opens the door for her, and almost immediately, she’s engulfed in a warm hug.

“I missed you!” Arya says, as if she hadn’t sent Sansa an endless stream of letters from the moment she left for Canada.

“Oh, I missed you too, silly.”

“Come in! We fixed up the house as best we could. Rickon just moved out this spring. We thought no one would buy it, but then Jon showed up, telling us all about your little- well, whatever it is.”

“Love affair,” Sansa murmurs dreamily, looking around at the newly remodeled entrance and grand staircase.

“Yes, well. He insisted that we keep it secret so we could surprise you. There’s so much you ought to do. Gendry gets off work at six, and maybe we could go on a walk-”

“Don’t forget the yard,” Jon says, picking up Cordelia and kissing her cheeks. She giggles and squeals _puppy,_ summoning Ghost to her side. Her necklace, a simple wedding ring on a chain, glints in the sunlight.

“Right! Sorry. This way.” Arya leads her through the house, to the French doors that lead to the backyard. She pushes them open, revealing an expansive garden, complete with roses in vibrant whites, reds, and pinks. Tall, old oaks provide shade at the edges of the yard, and a white marble fountain stands in the center.

Her eyes sting with tears.

“Do you like it?” Jon asks.

“It’s perfect. I-”

Anna runs past them, shrieking in delight. “Mama, Papa, it’s so pretty! Can we play fairies and princesses?”

Jon’s face lights up. Anna has never called him ‘papa’ before.

“What do you think, love?” he says. “Will you be my fairy queen?”

“Always.” She kisses his cheek, ignoring Arya’s exasperated sigh in the background.

They’re married two days later. There’s not enough time to order new clothes, so Sansa cuts apart an old set of bed sheets and sews it into a plain white dress. Arya gathers roses from the garden to put in a bouquet. Bran and Rickon visit for the ceremony and the small party afterwards, where Anna dances with everyone at least once. Sansa reunites with Bran and Rickon and gets to meet their wives. The Stark family feels _whole_ for the first time since their parents and Robb had died.

Jon makes up for three years of absence on their wedding night. They’re still young, and they’re so in _love._ He kisses the silvery lines that had appeared on her stomach after having two children, and whispers _beautiful_ before his face dips between her thighs.

There’s still unpacking to be done. Piece by piece, she settles back into her own home. The few items she had kept from the mansion are given new homes. There’s a vase that goes into the sitting room and a set of teacups that goes in the dining room.

Sansa hangs the picture of her and Jaime on their wedding day in Anna and Cordelia’s shared room. It’s obscured by shadows for most of the day, but she finds herself looking at it dreamily under the light of the moon.

Jaime had told her, once, that he wanted her to be content. But that seemed like another lifetime in another world.

She heads back into her room. Jon is already dozing off under the thick quilts, but he shifts his arms around her as she climbs in bed.

“Are you happy?” he asks.

“I’m happy,” she says, kissing him slowly, because they have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... no one is in character, the writing is sloppy, and the plot is dumb, but you know what? This was 21 pages in Google Docs A.K.A. long as hell A.K.A. I put a lot of effort into it. A note- Sansa names her and Jaime's daughter Cordelia because the first time she met Jon, she was holding a copy of King Lear (in which Cordelia is a character) so whoop-dee-doo!  
> That being said, I hope you enjoyed this lil piece, let me know what ya think! Comments are greatly appreciated!


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